One Year On
by Laclavande
Summary: One year on from the events of One Dead Sunflower and Porthos has returned to Paris a hero. Asher may be gone, but the effect he left on our musketeer family remains. Will Porthos and Elodie be stronger for it?
1. Chapter 1

Porthos had been told to expect a crowd, but he could never have expected _such_ a crowd. Hundreds lined the streets as his open-top carriage rolled over the cobbles on the way to the Louvre. The people waved and cheered and Porthos waved back meekly. He couldn't understand how so many people were there for him alone or why they would even care, but he certainly didn't mind the honour. He felt like a king.

By the time he arrived at the palace, Porthos' arm was very tired and his cheeks hurt from the constant smiling, but he still couldn't stop. This was it, he was finally home. Soon he would see his family again and his dear friends.

Porthos was escorted through to the grand throne room- a room he had been in countless times during his years as a Musketeer, but this time was special. He took a moment to tug his uniform into being straighter, though it was more of a wrestle, and he took a deep breath before the doors were opened. He heard the swish of fabric as everyone in the room turned their attention to his entrance. People who he didn't know and who didn't know him lined either side of the room just like the streets outside. He spotted Elodie immediately. He saw her before he even saw the glamorous Queen and the boy-king at her side, almost completely hidden behind his mother. There she was at the front of the room, dressed in a beautiful blue dress to match her eyes. Porthos had missed her, of course he had, but until that moment when those blue eyes met his, he hadn't realised how much.

Stoically, he walked towards the King and Queen Regent, who stood alone on the dais above everyone, though the King hardly matched the height of anyone there.

"General," the Queen began as Porthos was still making his way, "Welcome to Paris."

Porthos bowed before them, flipping his dress cloak behind him and tucking his sword to his side, but he was incredibly aware of how close he was to his wife. He took another deep breath. Just a few more moments and he could embrace her, talk to her face to face. Aramis was there too at the bottom of the dais near the Queen, beaming proudly. He reminded Porthos so much of Treville. He really looked like he belonged.

"Thank you, your majesty."

Then, the small boy spoke up with a rehearsed proclamation,

"Your success in Rocroi has turned the tide of the war for France. Today, it is you who should be thanked."

And after being prompted by the Queen with a small nudge, he put his hands together and clapped. The room erupted into echoed applause. Porthos allowed himself to look to his wife. Elodie was beaming at him, hands thrown together, clapping harder than anyone.

"The victory is not all mine, your majesty," Porthos managed to say when the noise died down, "It is because of our brave French troops, although outnumbered, that we were able to retake the fortress."

"Such humility…" said the Queen with a small smile, emanating warmth, "Still, France thanks you, General du Vallon- representing our men in the north," and she looked to her son, giving him a small nod to prompt him once again. The boy's face showed a subtle confusion, an expression that astonished Porthos with how much it reminded him of the First Minister.

"May further victories be swiftly won," the King finally said, bouncing on his feet a little with excitement at having remembered his line. Then they stepped down and everyone bowed, but they didn't leave right away. Softly, so that only he could hear, the Queen stood close and said,

"It's good to see you, Porthos."

Then the Queen left, leading the King by the hand, and the crowding courtiers shuffled around to follow, most not giving Porthos a second glance. Aramis looked to him apologetically as he followed his queen. Porthos understood; they would reunite properly later.

One man in a splendid hat came out of nowhere and took Porthos' hand as he was walking towards Elodie.

"It's an honour, sir," he said, shaking their joined hands vigorously, and Porthos only smiled and nodded and then the man had nothing else to say and he too shuffled away.

When he turned his attention back to his wife, she was already hastily trotting his way, her fancy satin dress creating quite the noisy ruckus as she moved. Suddenly, the room was empty and it was just them. Elodie leapt at him to wrap her arms around the neck of the man that wasn't even that much taller than her, but Porthos took her up in his arms, her skirts all bunched up under her. And they kissed. Elodie took her husband's face in her hands and pressed her lips down upon his; with a smile that she hadn't gotten to wear for a while. Mischievous and pretty and scrunching her whole face- Porthos would've melted if he had been able to see it.

"I'm here," he whispered to her when they parted.

"That you are," she whispered back, "Thank God you're safe." And she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, burying her face in his tall collar. This was the moment she had been longing for for so long. After receiving his letter after everything that happened with her ex-husband when he returned from the dead a year ago, Elodie had grown even closer to Porthos, despite the distance. For months beforehand, she had avoided writing letters to him, she had been too afraid. Afraid to be open with him, afraid he wouldn't respond, or if he did, his words would be curt. But after that first letter arrived, letters from her husband flooded her home, just as letters from his wife flooded Porthos' tent at his regiment's encampments. The chest in Elodie's bedroom that once contained bed linen and one dead sunflower was now filled with so many letters.

Slowly, Porthos lowered her to the floor. A hand lingered on her face as he gazed at her, and she at him. During those cold, wet nights at the front, he had dreamt of the faces of the people he loved, faces he didn't want to forget a single detail of. It was the thought of his brothers, of Constance and of Treville that kept him going, and Elodie. She had been at the forefront of his mind so many times as he fought for his life in the thick of battle, muddy and bloody; but Porthos' memory had grown fuzzy. He never got a chance to fully memorise his wife's face like he had the others, they just hadn't had enough time together. It was in this moment, as he gazed down at her, that he took in every detail to fill the small gaps in his mind.

"What're you staring at?" Elodie asked him amusedly, her hand on top of his on her cheek. Porthos chuffed and couldn't help but smile as he said simply,

"You," and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

At least for the coming weeks or months or however long they had together, Porthos wouldn't have to worry about remembering Elodie's face anymore. He need only look up.

Porthos looked up,

"Marie-Cessette?" he said, asking so many things with the utterance of his daughter's name.

"She's great! She's _big_."

Elodie did notice Porthos' pang of sadness, and she smiled wider to combat it, but it barely lasted a second. He always knew he'd not be there to watch her grow, but it still hurt to think about how much he was missing. It was difficult, trying to imagine what the tiny baby he remembered looked like now at nearly two years old.

"She's with Constance, of course," Elodie continued, "I'm so excited. Let's go home right now."

 _Home_.

"Let's go home."

* * *

The fancy carriage from the palace was once again out on the streets of Paris. As Porthos awkwardly waved and smiled at the people who for some reason were still there to see him, Elodie just watched him from her side of the carriage. Porthos still may not have understood why people were so desperate to catch a glimpse of him, but Elodie certainly did. He was a war hero, worthy of such adoration and so much more.

"Are you ready?" Elodie asked him as they drove over the Pont Rouge, the crowd now gone. The garrison was just around the corner. Porthos was about to see it for the first time. When he left, it had been in ashes. " _We are the garrison_ ," Athos had said, and Porthos had carried that sentiment with him when he went back to the war. But still, like everything he loved about Paris, Porthos had missed the place.

"More than ready," he answered confidently, looking back at Elodie.

The carriage rolled to a stop outside. Elodie was the first to get up. She wasn't sure if Porthos wanted to take it slow or rush in and see the place, see his friends, either way, she was there to head through the always open doors with him. Porthos stood up too and he stepped down from the carriage silently. He put out a hand to help Elodie down too and when she was, he offered her his arm. She took it gladly and before she knew it, they were moving forward. When they walked through the arch, it opened up into a space so familiar to Porthos. Under-boot, that same crusty mud and straw. In the air, that same smell of horses and leather and gunpowder. But before his eyes, the wood was light and new, and the structure of the main building was _different_ somehow. It seemed that a lot of money had been put into the reconstruction; thanks to the Queen, Porthos presumed. Before it was destroyed, the garrison seemed as though it had stood in the city forever. Now it was rebuilt anew, but the same spirit remained. " _We are the garrison_."

The stairs to the Captain's office were back, and Porthos looked forward to jogging up and down them again. Nothing exciting happens on the days you walk up the stairs to the Captain's office.

Porthos smiled as he took it all in, and Elodie watched him, glad to see he approved.

"This is amazing," he said, flashing Elodie his toothy grin.

"See those three windows there?" Elodie said, pointing at what used to be the armoury, or perhaps it still was, "I put those in."

And without missing a beat, Porthos said,

"I'm impressed."

Elodie smiled so brightly at her husband and he gave her a knowing smile in return. It warmed her heart to know he remembered such things about the day they met.

Lorenzo and Brujon were at the table outside, a table Porthos could've sworn was longer than the old one. They noticed the uniformed man next to Madame du Vallon and quickly quieted their conversation. Brujon swung his legs over the bench and nodded and smiled at the General before rushing up the stairs.

"He's here!" he called, "He's here!"

Before the young musketeer even got to the door, it swung open and d'Artagnan stepped out onto the balcony and leaned over the railing to see his friend, his smile widening. Porthos started towards the stairs and so did d'Artagnan. They met on the landing and embraced, a tight hug accented with manly pats on the back.

"Welcome back," said the Captain. Elodie's heart warmed as she watched this reunion unfold. Porthos glanced back at his wife and held her gaze for a moment as he said softly,

"Thank you for keeping them safe."

"Of course," d'Artagnan replied seriously, and they embraced again, hearty laughter following. Then emerging from the Captain's rooms at the top of the stairs came Constance, and at the end of her hand was a little girl with messy blonde hair, who toddled out onto the balcony with her aunt. Upon seeing her, Porthos let out a happy breathy sigh. He climbed the remaining stairs but after that, he wasn't sure what to do. Constance crouched down and said something in Marie's ear. The little girl shrieked happily and ran over to a shocked Porthos, who dropped to his knees just in time to catch her in a hug that almost bowled him over.

"Hey there," he cooed sweetly, tears prickling his eyes as he held this tiny child, his child. Porthos lifted her up, expecting to be awkward in the way he held her, he was without practice after all- but she sat comfortably in his arms as she continued to hug him around the neck. She wasn't letting go.

Elodie had made her way to the top of the stairs,

"She knows who you are," she said matter-of-factly, standing at her husband's side, a hand on his shoulder as she gazed at her daughter, "I knew she would, but I didn't expect her to be so brave."

She stroked the curls that flicked upwards on the girl's head.

"Marie!" Elodie gasped, "Who is this?"

"Papa!"

It was the first time he had been called that. That simple two-syllable moniker. Porthos shook his head in disbelief before placing a kiss on Marie's head and on Elodie's, who was near tears herself. Musketeer, General, son of a Marquis, none of these titles made Porthos feel as honoured as he did when Marie-Cessette called him _papa_.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, after an evening of celebration with the Musketeers, Porthos and Elodie stayed awake in bed for hours- their conversation intermittent whispers by the light of a single candle in the bedroom. They talked about Marie, who slept soundly on the other side of the room. They talked briefly about the war, and they talked about how perfect everything was.

"I'm just so proud of you," Elodie whispered. She was on her side with her hands pressed together under her cheek. Porthos was on his back, one arm above his head with the other on his bare chest. He turned to look at her in the dim candlelight. He didn't say anything, just pondered what she had said. He had been awarded so much honour for just doing his job. A lot of people thought he deserved it, so he supposed they must be right. Elodie had good reason to be proud of him and by God, he was going to learn to accept that.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence and Elodie thought about how incredible it was how at ease she felt sharing a bed with someone other than her daughter, let alone a man. Though she wasn't totally comfortable. All night she had been trying to work up the courage to do _something_. Touch him, kiss him. Because she knew he'd never initiate it himself- Porthos was just like that. Unless she made the first move, they'd be in intimacy limbo for the rest of their lives. They had kissed in the throne room, but it was a different story in the bedroom. But sleep was beginning to find her now, " _tomorrow, perhaps…_ " she thought to herself.

"I know he's gone, but… Do you think he'll be back?"

Elodie's eyes shot open, her heart having leapt in her chest. He was talking about Asher.

"I very much doubt it," she replied, trying not to sound panicked. She knew it was only memories that were frightening her, but that didn't make her any less afraid. But it wasn't Asher she was afraid of, it was what he could have done.

"Either way, I'm here to protect you now," Porthos said, his voice low. He had given up on whispers, "Protect you both."

Usually what Elodie would say to this is that she could protect herself, but this time she didn't, because she wasn't sure if it was true. Elodie rolled her lips as the panic in her chest died down and it turned into a pleasant swelling, like a rosebud about to bloom. Then she sat up slightly, leaning on her elbow. Her other arm smoothed the bedsheet as it slowly glided over it, finding its way to Porthos' side of the bed. Her hand continued to glide over his body, touching bare flesh. It was warm, and where there were no scars, it was soft. Only his eyes moved as they travelled from her hand on his arm all the way up to her face above his. In the gloom, her eyes were gentle, full of tenderness, her lips parted ever so slightly.

"And for that I am thankful," she said, also having given up on whispers. And she leaned down and kissed him. On his lips, the taste of wine from earlier in the evening still lingered. Immediately, Porthos' relaxed arm came down and he held the top of Elodie's neck, his fingers splayed. His thumb stroked her cheek while his fingers sank into her loose hair, and he deepened the kiss.

It wasn't a fake spontaneity that sparked the kiss. Elodie didn't count to three and hope for the best. She didn't hold her breath like she was going in for a dive. She didn't even really think about it at all. It just felt right.

* * *

The sun was shining through wispy clouds when Porthos walked out into the yard the next morning. Although the warmth of summer hadn't arrived quite yet, Porthos revelled in the sunshine that touched his face and the parts of him exposed by his shirt. Constance and Elodie were chatting at the table, both of them with subtle eyes on Marie-Cessette as she toddled around the table. When Elodie noticed Porthos approaching, she flashed him a smile.

"Nice of you to finally join us," she said.

"The journey yesterday was long, must've caught up with me," Porthos sighed as he sat down across from the women. Marie finished her revolution of the table and smacked her little hands down on the bench her father was sitting on. She began babbling away, only nonsense coming out of her mouth. She wasn't much of a conversationalist yet. Porthos instinctively picked her up and set her down on his lap where she was quite happy, before saying to Elodie,

"Not to mention you keeping me up all night."

"Oh _I_ kept _you_ up did I?" she quipped, folding her arms. Constance's eyes widened and her lips became tightly pursed. Slowly, the Captain's wife said,

"I'm going to go now," and she got up from the table, heading upstairs. Elodie tried to get her to stay,

"Oh Constance," but she found she was too amused to really try. Instead, she watched Porthos wipe some dirt off of Marie's hands as she stood to his seated height on the bench. Like how at ease she herself felt with Porthos, it surprised Elodie how quickly Marie had accepted his presence. It made her wonder how much the usually nonsensical little girl actually understood.

"Oh!" Elodie exclaimed, suddenly remembering something, "This arrived from the palace for you," and she dug around in her pocket bag before pulling out an unopened letter, its colour crisp and white and sealed with ruby red wax that shone in the outdoor sun. Porthos wiped his hands on his trousers before he reached over for it curiously, Marie taking an interest as well as her father held her at the hip.

"It's from Aramis," he said, already half-way through reading the short note,

"He's arranged a meeting for me this afternoon," he finished, not sounding very excited at all and the hand holding the note slumped to the table.

"I know he's busy and important, but can he really not just come down to the tavern anymore?"

"He's the First Minister!" laughed Elodie. What a sight that would be. General Porthos du Vallon and the First Minister of France down at The Dog's Den with the common folk of Paris, sharing a bottle of wine and cheating at cards.

Porthos sighed,

"I would think politicians need a drink more than most."

Elodie let out a breathy laugh.

"Well," she said, "when you see him, you should ask him. To go to the tavern, that is."

Porthos smiled, unconvinced. Then he got up from the table, taking Marie with him. He handed the child to Elodie and said,

"If I'm going to the palace, I best get dressed."

And then, as he was just turning to leave, he stopped and turned back to his wife. He bent down and placed a kiss on her cheek, before heading back to the apartment. After she watched him disappear inside, Elodie shook the hands of the child standing on her lap,

"Mama could get used to this," she told her gleefully.

* * *

Later, when Porthos was ready to leave for his meeting, Elodie was there with Marie to see him off. She let Marie stroke the feather in his hat before handing it to him.

"Give Aramis my regards," she said.

"Mine too!" came the voice of Constance from the balcony across the yard.

"And mine!" Called d'Artagnan before he appeared beside Constance. Porthos laughed, and after giving it a second in case anyone else in the vicinity had anything to add, he said,

"I'll tell him you all say good day."

And he mounted his horse. Elodie pointed at the roof of the stable, more specifically the shingles that made up the roof. Marie mimicked her mother, pointing a chubby finger to the sky.

"I helped put those up there," Elodie remarked.

* * *

On the way to the palace and as he climbed the steps and as he walked the halls, Porthos was annoyed about the way things had to be. But as soon as he turned a corner and saw his friend he forgot all about it and his mood changed completely.

"Porthos!"

"Aramis."

Their humble greeting before meeting in the middle and catching each other in a hug, not unlike the one Porthos and d'Artagnan shared. When they parted, Aramis did not let go right away. He held Porthos by his biceps, saying earnestly,

"I do apologise for having to be so formal with the note and meeting like this, making you wait. You've been in Paris a whole day already-"

"It's alright," said Porthos, and Aramis' grip slipped from his arm. He stepped aside and motioned for Porthos to follow him and they started the short way down the hallway to get to the First Minister's office.

"It's just a busy time," Aramis continued, "Thanks to you actually. As soon as Rocroi was won, the Spanish began regrouping and stabilising-"

"I know," Porthos interrupted dryly.

"Of course you do. Sorry. I'm just so used to explaining everything to the council. And I mean _everything_. They're a pack of idiots."

The doors to the office opened and they walked through.

"It's so good to see you, Aramis."

"You too, brother. I hope we never go this long again," and Aramis gave Porthos a pat on the back before sitting down; not in his chair behind his desk, but in one of the twin velvet chairs so the two could sit together.

Aramis and Porthos used to see each other every day, they were inseparable for years, now they barely saw each other. But that's life. Though their presence may be infrequent, the people who really matter will always be there. Aramis, d'Artagnan, Athos, they were always going to be Porthos' brothers. Distance and time and even eventually death cannot erase that bond.

A servant lingered by the door and Aramis awkwardly acknowledged him with a look and a smile. He was never going to get used to people waiting on him. He had always been a servant of France, now he had servants of his own and that just didn't sit right with him.

"Tea?" Aramis asked Porthos, and the General nodded, tight-lipped. _How very regal_ , he noted. When the servant left the room, Porthos said,

"Afternoon tea is nice and all, but wouldn't you rather be at the Dog's Den?"

Aramis laughed, the absurdity of the question leaving him tickled. Aramis had grown to be comfortable here, but would he be more comfortable sitting in a tavern with an old friend? Of this, he wasn't so sure.

"At the table right in the middle of the room," Porthos continued, "You remember?"

Aramis eyes lit up as he remembered the spot they had spent so much time,

"An excellent vantage point for observation and defence if the need arises," he recounted. "Exactly."

The tea was brought in and Aramis again became awkward as the tray was set down on his desk. He gave a nod of thanks to the servant and he quickly left. Aramis then went about serving the tea silently. As he poured, he smiled to himself, chaotic memories somewhat misremembered as happy ones at the forefront of his mind.

Porthos watched on, half-expecting Aramis to stop pouring the tea and ask him to follow him out of the palace. But he didn't. Aramis handed Porthos his cup, incredibly dainty and decorated with paintings of exotic birds. As Aramis settled back into his chair, Porthos studied his cup and its matching saucer, thinking his hands much too large to handle such a thing.

"So no to the tavern?" he asked aloud, and Aramis looked at him strangely, it was the same subtle confusion Porthos had seen on the King's face.

"Those days are behind us, Porthos," he said, realising that maybe the man across from him was being serious.

"Nonsense. You're just afraid I'd beat you at cards."

"We can play cards here!"

They played a few rounds of Quinze, sat at opposite sides of the desk, cleared of all important documents for the first time since Aramis was appointed. Pothos won the first game, and as they both shuffled a lot each for a rematch, Porthos began telling Aramis of his arrival in Paris, the party in the evening, and of meeting Marie. They were able to play without truly focusing, it was just something to do while they talked. Porthos cut the lowest card and reshuffled the deck for Aramis to cut again. One card went to each of them and as they took a few more cards each, Porthos finished his telling with how late he got up that morning and the room went quiet. They locked eyes and knew the other was ready. They revealed their cards and quickly counted. Aramis sighed aggressively. Porthos had won again with an exact fifteen, and the victor laughed his happy hearty laugh. Then they went about silently gathering the cards and shuffling them, but Aramis stopped. He held his half of the deck as he tentatively asked,

"How does it feel when Marie calls you papa?"

Porthos stopped too and his hands fell to his lap. The question had caught him off guard and Aramis' tone made his heart sink. That honour, that unique joy that he gets to experience, Aramis will never feel. That was why he was asking. It was a fact they had known for a long time, that Aramis' son will never call him _Papa_ , but still it pained them so. And now a father himself, Porthos empathised even more.

"It feels great," was all he said. Aramis smiled warmly, happy for his friend, and they went back to their game. But the intense sorrow Porthos felt for his friend did not leave him until Aramis was called to meet with the Queen and they had to say goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos shut the door to the apartment softly, unsure if Marie was asleep or not. Elodie was at the hearth, using the firelight to work on the small embroidery project she had been trying to do since around the time she had arrived in Paris. She had neither the patience or the time for such things, especially with a baby, but she tried anyway. The image was supposed to be a fleur de lys, but it was looking more like a butterfly. Every stitch was slow, she had other things on her mind.

"Hey," Porthos greeted, taking off his weapon belts. He set them down on the table very softly, his sword only clanging a little.

"Hey," responded Elodie, setting down her handiwork and looking back at him, "How was it?"

"Good. Really good. We played cards," he replied flatly, settling down into the settee next to her and staring into the fire. After a quiet moment, Elodie spoke up,

"You miss him."

"Yeah," Porthos smiled, stifling the sadness, "I do."

Elodie rested a hand on his,

"You'll see more of him," she said, and they both settled back into the comfortable cushions, Porthos' arm draped across the back. Elodie picked her embroidery hoop back up, but the needle only hovered above it. She looked past Porthos at the cradle in the corner of the room where their child was sleeping, but Porthos saw that she was looking past that too.

"Something on your mind?" he asked her. Elodie's eyes suddenly focused into meeting his.

"Oh it's not important…" she said, and she proceeded to perform one careful stitch, but Porthos could tell she wanted to say something more. He waited. And she made one more stitch before placing her work in her lap.

"I've just been thinking about something you said in a letter."

"Oh?"

This something had been weighing on her mind since she had first read it, but she never asked about it, didn't think she had a right to, especially in a letter. But after all this time, her intrigue was getting the best of her.

Elodie sighed, hesitant to explain, but she eventually did,

"When I told you about _everything_ that happened, one of the things you said was that you were reminded of your father in Asher. And I- I don't like to pry… But I have been wondering why that is."

One of the differences between her first husband and Porthos was that she knew everything there was to know about Asher's past before she married him. She knew his parents, how he grew up- but with Porthos, she had only hints of his history from stories told by other people. And nobody ever spoke of his father.

Porthos was taken aback by what Elodie had said, and she shrank into herself, grimacing. She thought she had struck something in him that had hurt him.

"Asher…" he began before taking a deep breath, staring into the fire, "Is like my father… Because I think his interest in you and Marie comes from the same place my father's did with me. Blood is all that matters to him. He feels entitled. Like my father felt entitled to me."

"I see."

There was a long pause. A log cracked, its embers floating up the blackened chimney. Marie stirred in her sleep, and her parents both turned their attention to her when they heard her soft moan. When she made no other noise, Porthos and Elodie relaxed. Elodie put her elbow on the arm of the settee and leaned her cheek on her fist. She looked at her husband and he smiled at her, easing back into comfort.

"Treville took you in to become a Musketeer, right?"

Porthos breathed deep, glad that she wasn't pursuing the topic of his father, and he continued to smile, thinking back fondly on _his captain_.

"He did. And he was the closest thing I had to a father. Well, maybe an uncle."

Porthos chuckled lightly and Elodie reclined deeper, listening. He was looking at her as he was talking to her now. Porthos' light-heartedness turned serious and his voice lowered, and not for the benefit of the sleeping baby,

"And although he once did wrong by my mother and me, and I think he knew he could never make up for that, he did try."

For now, that was all he was going to reveal.

"So you yourself say that your father is like Asher," Elodie said with a smile, "but do you not also see how you can be easily compared to Minister Treville?"

Porthos scoffed,

"Nah…"

He and Treville were both Musketeers, and to Porthos, the comparison stopped there. Elodie was thinking too highly of him once again.

"You are," she said, "You are to me and Marie, as Treville was to you as a young man."

"Alright who have you been talking to? D'Artagnan been telling you stories?"

"He has," Elodie admitted, "but he assures me they're all true. And Treville's character, as a father-figure, you're a lot like him in that respect, that's all I'm saying," she finished with a shrug. Porthos was left to contemplate. He smiled to himself. Perhaps she was right. This woman who had never even met the man in question, and who of all the people closest to him he has known for the shortest amount of time, she saw that invisible connection that no longer existed. She saw it between the settee and that cradle in the corner. She saw that bond between Porthos and his adoptive daughter.

"Oh yeah. I painted this room," Elodie said once Porthos had made his realisation, and he nodded in approval as he looked around, like a man ready to buy a house.

Not long after their fire-side conversation, Elodie and Porthos were getting ready for bed. Elodie felt comfortable enough to undress in front of him. She didn't have much choice really, there were only two rooms and no door to divide them, only a wide structural arch. As she stood with her back to him, untying her stays as he struggled to pull off his boots, her eyes fell on her chest of letters down in the corner. But it wasn't the letters that she was thinking about anymore; Porthos had given her his answer. Dexterous fingers tugged at the ribbon. Her mind was in the past. She thought of the dried sunflower Asher had given her, the one that she had hidden in there. The one that had made her think he was a better version of the man she once knew. The one that was a lie. She tried not to think about him. But she couldn't help it. She sighed and turned around. Standing there in her chemise, dim candlelight again all that there was to illuminate this small part of the bedroom. Elodie watched as Porthos, sitting on the bed with his back to her, yanked his second boot from his foot and place it on the floor next to its twin. She continued to watch as he rubbed his head, frizzing his hair. He pushed himself off the bed and for a moment she thought he was going to turn around and see that she was looking at him, but instead he padded over to Marie. He was careful not to disturb her. He just looked her up and down and stroked her forehead so lightly it must've felt like the faintest of draughts from under a door. And he whispered something to her that Elodie couldn't hear. Then he turned back and Elodie spun back around. She took a deep breath.

"Porthos."

And he stopped, just about to get into bed.

"Yes?"

She started to look over her shoulder, but turned back to the wall, her hands fiddling with each other. After another breath, she confessed,

"For all the hurt he caused, I still can't help but be grateful for Asher coming back. If only for making me realise how lucky I am to have you."

Now out with it, she had the confidence to turn around, her fiddling hands falling to her sides. Porthos stared at her from the other side of the bed. Tears welled in her eyes and her voice cracked and turned into a whisper as she said,

"And exactly why I love you."

In a flash, Porthos rounded the bed, his arms already out to hold her.

"Don't cry… Don't cry," he murmured, wiping her tears with his thumbs. Her back tingled when he held the back of her head. She stood so still.

"I can't ever be grateful to that man, but I will always be grateful to you," he spoke with such conviction, "For sticking by me when you could've just turned around and forgotten about me. I don't know what I'd do without you now. You're as much a part of me as- as my sword," and he laughed lightly. He looked deep into her eyes.

"When duty calls me, and it will, I won't be fighting for just France anymore. I'll be fighting for you."

Such a romantic statement. Elodie thought that perhaps he had merely read it somewhere, but looking up into his eyes and the way he was looking at her, she knew it had come from the heart. He brought a hand from behind her head to her chin and kissed her gently. It was the kind of kiss Elodie gives Marie when she's falling asleep. The kind of kiss that Elodie had been in need of for a long time.

* * *

Since Porthos never got down to the tavern, d'Artagnan decided to bring the tavern to him. They hadn't had much of a chance to catch up yet. They sat in d'Artagnan and Constance's rooms, the most private place in the garrison. They had a small bottle each of what might've been the cheapest wine in the city. No cups- what would be the point? D'Artagnan closed the door and dropped himself onto the bed, as there was only one chair, and his hat bounced next to him.

After taking his first swig, Porthos said,

"So… I found out that two years is a _long time_ for a man to be away from his wife. I don't know how you did it for four years."

D'Artagnan smiled behind his bottle.

"Well I had you and Athos didn't I?"

"Aw come on," Porthos drawled, "We drove you insane."

"You mean _I_ drove _you_ insane. Always rushing in, never taking a moment to plan ahead. You hated that! It's no surprise you were made general, Porthos. And a celebrated one at that."

"Yeah, well…"

They both tipped their bottles to each other and drank. There was silence for a few moments, except for the banging of a horse being shoed somewhere outside. Porthos looked at his young friend, who gazed out of the window, dirty rooftops and the beginnings of a sunset all he had to view.

"I don't think I've thanked you enough for saving Marie-Cessette."

"Porthos-"

"If it weren't for you… God knows where she would be. But it's because of you that I know she's with our wives right now. And she's safe."

D'Artagnan had taken Porthos and Elodie's gratitude so many times already. In all his years as a Musketeer had he ever been thanked so much.

"That girl has as many protectors as the King himself," he said before taking another drink. It was an exaggeration of course, though not entirely untrue.

"And she's lucky to have you as a father, Porthos. Her biggest protector."

Porthos looked away, to d'Artagnan he seemed almost bashful. Porthos was the one looking out the window now.

"The garrison looks great," he said.

"It does, doesn't it? I don't know if she's told you, but Elodie helped a lot."

Porthos stood up and went to the window. He leaned on the frame as he gazed down at the garrison yard below. Downstairs, a fire was being lit. He took a drink before asking, sullen,

"Do you know where Gauthier went?"

D'Artagnan was quick to reply,

"No, no I don't. I never saw him, I have no idea."

"Is that true?"

"Yes it's true," d'Artagnan snapped defensively, "Why would I lie?"

"To protect Elodie."

Porthos knew it was true. He'd do the same. D'Artagnan was a good liar. Porthos had seen him use his skill countless times on missions and it had never failed them, but he had also seen how he faltered in his deception when it came to his friends. The man had once drunkenly broken down crying when he confessed he had pulled the feather from Athos' hat and lost it only ten minutes beforehand.

Porthos finally turned to face the Captain and d'Artagnan sighed.

"You don't have to worry about him," he said, "He's not a threat…"

D'Artagnan was struggling to look Porthos in the eye. He looked away, calculating what he should or shouldn't reveal. But this was Porthos. This was about his family. He looked back at the man he called his brother,

"I told him if I ever saw him in Paris again I'd kill him."

"So you did see him? Before he took Marie-?"

The baby was stolen in the dead of night. If d'Artagnan had threatened Asher before he kidnapped her then maybe it had all been his fault. But d'Artagnan was quick to disperse Porthos' intrusive thoughts,

"No, I didn't. I… We don't need to talk about this. It's over. It's been over for a long time."

D'Artagnan placed his bottle on the floor and rubbed his face, sighing. He did not want to be having this conversation. Porthos knew him too well, he was going to find out the truth and he was going to be angry that d'Artagnan had kept it from him for the past year.

"You saw him after?" Porthos pressed, putting down his own bottle. D'Artagnan was silent, he couldn't find the words to explain.

"I need to know, d'Artagnan, don't keep secrets from me!"

"You're getting too worked up, you need to calm down."

Porthos sucked his gums and stared d'Artagnan down before sitting down again. He sank into the armchair and calmly asked,

"When did you tell him to never come back to Paris?"

D'Artagnan tried to avoid Porthos' eyes, but they searched him like torchlight and he found that he could not avoid him at all. D'Artagnan resigned to admitting the truth; _what harm would it do anyway?_ The lie he told Elodie had been a comfort to her, but Porthos was not in need of that same comfort.

"When we were at the inn where we found them," he finally said.

Porthos leaned forward in his chair,

"They were both there?"

D'Artagnan nodded and Porthos leaned back again.

"He didn't leave Marie at that inn, he intended to go through with it all along…"

And he leaned forward again. He was going backwards and forwards so much it was like he was rowing a boat,

"You lied to Elodie."

"Yes, I lied to Elodie! But what does it matter?"

Porthos took sharp but heavy breaths. He felt betrayed. He knew d'Artagnan had been hiding something, he knew it all along, and the man didn't even realise how important his secret was. Porthos had never been happy about Asher Gauthier walking free, but now that he knew he never gave his daughter up willingly in the manner they had all been led to believe, he wasn't just unhappy. But he also wasn't angry. Porthos was _scared_.

"Oh, it matters. It matters a lot," he said darkly, and he stormed out of the room.

* * *

 **A/N** _That's it for now, but there will be a third part to this series at some point in the future. Thank you so much for reading and your nice reviews :)_


End file.
